JEANIE’S SECRET
The summer would have passed happily enough but for a rumor that there
had been seen some hostile Indians in the next settlement; and this
information so affected Fergus Kennedy that he became stricken with a
continual fear, and was powerless to do anything but cower, rifle in
hand, in the corner of the cabin. Brave man that he had always been,
this condition seemed the more pitiful to his friends who had known him
in his strength.
“It’s not like father,” Agnes told Polly, “and I don’t know what we
shall do. The M’Cleans want us to leave here and go over to them, but
who then will look after our clearing?”
“Jerry Hunter ’ud do it.”
“Maybe he would, but I don’t like to leave here just as we are fairly
settled.”
“It ’ud be safer; we’re no so near to neighbors, and your fayther so
distracted.” Polly pinched her chin thoughtfully. “Then there’s the
childer. I’d shoot down the redskins, and shed my last drop of blood
for ’em; but would it save ’em if the beasts came?”
“Then you think we ought to go to the garrison house?”
“It would be safer. I don’t care for mysel’, Nancy; but when I
think of Jimmy’s childer, I can’t peril them; for what would he say
when he comes back, and finds them gone because of their mother’s
foolhardiness?”
“But I don’t like the fort with the cabins so close together, and the
blockhouses so threatening and ugly. I do love the freedom of our own
clearing. I don’t believe the Indians have an idea of coming here;
the settlement is too big, and it is only a rumor that they have been
seen in the neighborhood. I think we might wait awhile and enjoy our
freedom.”
“Land o’ mercy, Nancy! I’m no better pleased than you to go; but if
there’s a chance of our being in danger, we must be on the safe side. I
am as daring as the next; but I must say when we beeta have Injuns for
visitors, I want to git out.”
Therefore Agnes reluctantly packed up the things she most cared
for--her favorite wolfskin that Archie had given her in place of the
one she had taken such pride in at the first settlement; a little bowl
quaintly carved, a belt ornamented with porcupine quills, and such like
things. Polly’s feather-beds and the rest of the family necessities
were packed on two horses, and the children were established in crates
at the sides of these beasts of burden; and so the journey was taken
to the fort, now the centre of quite a large, though scattered,
community.
Several families, at the report of Indians near, had come into the
fort, but there was still a number of the clearings occupied by those
who did not easily take alarm, and who waited for a confirmation of the
news before they should leave their comfortable quarters.
Jeanie insisted that Agnes should come immediately to her, but Agnes
refused to leave her father altogether, though she spent many a day
at the M’Cleans’ clearing, and there made the acquaintance of David
Campbell, who, being a near neighbor, found it convenient to drop in
often, despite the fact that Jeanie obstinately declared that she did
not like him.
“He is a good fellow,” Agnes insisted, “and I don’t see why you don’t
like him. You must and shall,” which was a sure way of encouraging
Jeanie in her decision not to like him.
“It is a pity Archie is your brother, for then you could take him and
give me David,” said Agnes, one day, when Jeanie had been singing
Archie’s praises.
“You can have David for aught I care,” returned Jeanie, bridling.
“Do you say so? Well then, I’ll go with him to meeting next Sabbath
day.”
“You’d better wait till he asks you,” retorted Jeanie.
“Oh, he’ll ask me fast enough,” Agnes replied, nodding her head with an
air of conviction.
Jeanie bit her lip but said nothing. David had asked her and she had
refused. Like most girls she was in a contrary frame of mind when it
came to a question of meeting a lover halfway. In her secret heart she
was only too anxious to accept David’s company, but she would not have
Agnes know it for the world, and though Agnes made many sly references
to the pleasures to be expected upon the coming Sabbath, neither girl
was particularly jubilant when she considered it, though of the two
Agnes was the more pleased. She had noted Jeanie’s lofty expression,
and laughed in her sleeve at the success of her little plot.
Not only one but two rather disconsolate members of the M’Clean
family appeared at church the next Sabbath day. Not relenting in her
determination to tease Jeanie, as well as to punish Archie for a fit of
sulks he had had during the week, Agnes triumphantly had her way and
led David to offer his escort. What did she care if heretofore he had
seemed to have eyes and ears only for Jeanie? She would let Jeanie see
that there were other girls beside herself, and it would also raise
Archie’s estimation of her if he knew that she could walk off so easily
with another girl’s lover, so she argued. Very adroitly she made Jeanie
the main topic of conversation, so that David was entertained greatly,
and the two were chatting like old friends when Jeanie and Archie
passed them on the road. David was always rather silent in Jeanie’s
company, and she felt a jealous pang as she noticed how ready he seemed
to talk to Agnes. She gave the two a stiff little nod as she passed,
and Agnes smiled to herself. “It’s all for her own good,” she thought,
“and I am glad I could make her put on that top-loftical look. As for
Archie, he looks sour enough, but I don’t care.” She had learned some
of Polly’s saucy ways, and the toss of her head was Polly’s own. Yet
when Mrs. M’Clean urged her and David to come home with her to supper,
the girl was nothing loath, and indeed was mischievously curious to see
how Jeanie would treat her, and to carry further her harmless little
flirtation with David.
The M’Cleans had made of their clearing one of the most comfortable
places thereabouts. Both father and son had a genius for the mechanic
arts, so that they were well supplied with hominy blocks, hand-mills,
tanning vats, looms, and such affairs, all of their own manufacture,
and though rude and clumsy, these were well adapted to their needs.
The house was more commodious than at first, having besides its
living-room, a bedroom on the first floor and a lean-to, or kitchen. A
loft overhead gave two or three sleeping rooms. The building, floored
with smooth puncheons, and, being well roofed and chinked, was very
comfortable. Archie’s latest achievement, a milk bucket having staves
alternately red and white, Jeanie displayed with great pride, and
though Agnes really thought it beautiful, she declared that it was too
gaudy.
At table a discussion of the day’s services was considered proper and
fit, the sermon being the chief topic of conversation. Joseph M’Clean
was still a strict Presbyterian, and did not uphold the lapses from a
serious deportment into which so many of the pioneers had fallen. He
was bound that his own family should be “releegious and orderly on the
Sabbath, no matter what his neighbors did,” and so the Sabbath evening
was passed soberly in singing psalms, and in reading from the Bible,
and in discussing at great length the chapters read. Archie quite
warmed up to the debate, but David had little to say, putting in only a
word now and then, his eyes between times upon Jeanie, who had treated
him with a cold scorn all day.
It was when the two girls went up to their loft room to prepare for bed
that Jeanie had her say. She, too, had been very quiet, for Agnes had
lured David over to her side upon the settle, and had ignored Archie
entirely.
“I think you treat Archie too badly,” said Jeanie, shaking down her
dark locks of hair.
“Oh, no, you mean I treat David too well,” returned Agnes, saucily.
“What do I care how you treat David?”
“You care a great deal; confess that you do, and I’ll not treat him so
well.”
“I’ll not confess.”
“Very well, you shall be tortured till you do.”
“You are a heartless girl, Nancy Kennedy.”
“Indeed, then, I’m not; I am too soft hearted.”
“Then why do you turn a cold shoulder to poor Archie?”
“‘I’m ower young to marry,’ and Archie does try one with his talk of
what he means to do when he is twenty-one.”
“Just think what fine buckets and bowls he could make you, Nancy. There
would be no one anywhere about who could make such a display as you.”
“As if I’d trade my heart for a red and white bucket; I’m not an Indian
squaw to be bought with trinkets.”
“And Archie doesn’t think so. It was only I who said that. Archie is
very modest.”
“He’s well aware of his own good traits. He will make a good meenister,
and I’m no one to hanker after being a meenister’s wife.”
“You ought to feel honored if ever you are.”
“Maybe, but I think, as I said before, I am ower young.” She put on
an innocent, childlike expression, and gave a side glance at Jeanie.
“David can make fine bowls, too, and he is to make me one, and,
moreover, he is going to tan a famous bearskin for me.” She gave her
information carelessly and laughed at the “Oh!” that it extracted from
Jeanie. “You must learn from the Indians not to make a sound when
you’re being tortured,” she said calmly. “I’ll tell you something else,
and see if you can’t do better. David’s mare goes beautifully, and I am
to try her some day. He will borrow another, and we are going to--to--”
She peeped around at Jeanie who had averted her head and whose face was
buried in her hands.
“You didn’t make a sound,” Agnes went on, trying to unclasp her
friend’s closely locked fingers. “You are getting on famously.” She
laughed softly as she finally pulled away the resisting hands from
Jeanie’s face. “Do you hate me, Jeanie?”
“No,” came reluctantly.
“Because it’s wicked to hate people, or because it is I, and you can’t
help loving me even if I do tease you?”
Jeanie made no answer.
“Will you confess? Will you say that you like David better than any one
in the whole wide world?”
Jeanie shook her head decidedly.
“Peggy Wilson said that David was a fine lad, and I was in luck to get
ahead of you.”
Jeanie never stirred.
“And Phil Beatty came up when we were going to mount to ride home, and
he said, ‘When you give your housewarming, Dave, count on me; you’ll
be wanting some one to help you if you’re going to add to your house
soon,’ and David laughed; and when he put me on the horse, I vow he
squeezed my hand. I think I like David very much, and as long as you
don’t care for him--why--there would be nothing wrong in liking him,
would there? Now if I had tried to attract him behind your back and
without learning whether you wanted him or not, that would be another
thing, and it would be too dishonorable to think of, but as it is--let
me see--he is twenty and I am now sixteen; in another year I might like
him well enough. Do we look well together, Jeanie? I ask only on my own
account, since you don’t admire David. David--it is a nice name, isn’t
it? Mrs. David Campbell, I wonder how I should like to be known as
that.”
Jeanie sprang to her feet, and flung Agnes’s hand from her. “You are a
mean, aggravating girl. I don’t love you, if you want to know. I wish I
had never seen you.” And she burst into tears.
“Now, haven’t I gone and done it!” exclaimed Agnes. “But still--now
don’t cry, Jeanie--still if you don’t care for David, why can’t you let
me have him?”
“I do care,” sobbed Jeanie, “if that satisfies you--if you like to be a
fiendish Indian and torture my secrets out of me.”
“Was it a secret?”
“You know it was. You know you had no right to tease it out of me when
I didn’t want to tell it. You know it was cruel.”
“I didn’t know. I forgot you might want to keep it even from me, and
that I hadn’t any right to make you tell me. I forgot everything except
that I was bound to make you acknowledge that I had prophesied truly.
I did that,” she added, half in triumph, though she was really much
subdued. She went close to Jeanie, and attempted to put her arm around
her friend, but Jeanie pushed her away. Agnes grew more penitent as
she realized how deeply she had offended, and she stood the picture of
contrition. “I’m so sorry, Jeanie,” she said, after a pause in which
only Jeanie’s sobs could be heard. “I’ll never, never tell any one. I
will not, truly. I see now I was very wicked to tease you so, but I
know David likes you better than anybody, and--please be friends and
I’ll tell you why he seemed to like being with me--I talked about you
all the time.”
At this Jeanie raised her head. “Are you telling me the truth, Nancy?”
“Of course I am. You shouldn’t say that even if I have teased you. You
know I always tell the truth.”
“How came you to think of that--of talking about me?”
“Because--” It was Agnes’s turn to hang her head. “You said once when
you wanted to please Archie and get him to do anything for you that you
had but to talk of me.”
“Then--now tell me the truth, since you know my secret--do you like
Archie?”
“Yes--I like him, but I do not like to think of marrying any one. I
will not think of it till I see my mother again.”
“But we are as old as our mothers were when they were married.”
“Yes, and older than Polly, who was but fifteen, and is now only
twenty-four. But I want to wait, so don’t fash me about it, Jeanie,
till my mother comes. I am in no haste.”
“No more am I, though I--I--”
“Yes, I know; you--you--will wait for David, and you will not have long
to wait if you but give him half a chance.”
At this Jeanie put her arms around Agnes and peace was concluded, Agnes
feeling that though she had gained her point, it was at the sorry
cost of a bit of her own self-respect, and she felt ashamed at having
pressed Jeanie so hard as to make her give up the secret which was her
own dear girlish dream. She determined at once that she would do all
that she could to make matters easy for the pair, and that they should
never have reason to reproach her for a lack of friendship.
The Indian alarm came to nothing, yet because of her father Agnes was
glad to stay at the fort all summer, though she longed for the little
cabin and for the time when her mother should come. How long it seemed
since she left her old home and started forth to this new Ohio country.
It had been a month or more since she had been down to the little
clearing to which she and Polly hoped soon to return, for now the cold
weather would soon set in and the danger from Indians would be over.
Archie, who had ridden by frequently, reported all in good order, and
they concluded that Jerry Hunter must be there, as Archie had seen
smoke coming from the chimney on more than one occasion. “I didn’t go
in,” he told Agnes, “for it seemed all in first-rate condition.”
“That’s good to know,” Agnes returned. “I dreaded to see it looking
dilapidated, and, besides,--” she hesitated, “I didn’t know but that
Humphrey Muirhead might have tried to do some damage to the place,
knowing we were away.”
“I don’t know that he does know it; he has been keeping pretty quiet
lately. I suppose he feels safe, and knows that you will not trouble
him again.”
“I wish I could.”
Archie smiled. “It would only be worse for you if you did. Faith,
Agnes, in this country where there’s land enough, and to spare, why do
you hanker after Naboth’s vineyard?”
“If it were Naboth’s vineyard, I wouldn’t hanker, for I’d have no right
to, but I feel, and always shall feel, that grandfather intended my
mother to have that place. It is the best about here. He put time and
money in it, and the house is such a good roomy one, while the farm is
cleared far more than most of the others, and one could make a good
living from it. If we could have the place all so well cleared, with
the truck patch and the orchard and all that, we could send for mother
at once. But now that father cannot work as heartily as he once did, it
will be years before we can hope to have as good a place as that.”
“I should have your mother come, anyhow, if I were you.”
“Oh, I mean to have her come as soon as there is a chance for her to
find company this far. I have sent her word. Our little cabin is small,
to be sure, and with two families in it we shall be crowded, but we are
going to add a lean-to, and I don’t doubt but that we can get along
after a fashion.”
“I wish you would remember that I shall soon be ready to take one
member of the family away to another home,” said Archie, pointedly.
Agnes, for answer, gave a shrug of her shoulders and walked away. She
did not care to bring up that question.
It was a crisp, clear morning--the last of November--when the family
returned to the cabin. There were evidences to be seen of a man’s
presence when they entered the door. A pipe lay on the table, a pair
of shoepacks on the floor, a book, half open, had been tossed on the
settle. Agnes took in all these details. “Jerry is still here,” she
remarked, “but I didn’t know he ever touched a book.”
“Never mind the book, or what he touches,” said Polly; “we’ve got
to stir our stumps and get these things of ours where they belong.
Where’s your father?”
“He’s gone out to the truck patch.”
“So much the better. We shan’t need him till mealtime. By then Jerry
will be back, I’m thinking. Trust the men for bein’ on hand when the
vittles is on the table.”
But it was not till they were snugly settled in bed that night that
they heard the sound of some one at the door which Agnes had securely
bolted. She gave Polly a gentle shake and whispered, “There’s some one
at the door, Polly; I expect it’s Jerry.”
“Whist!” said Polly. “Don’t wake your fayther, though he do sleep that
heavy you could fire off a gun in the room and it wouldn’t stir him.
I’ll go to the door and ask who it is.” She suited the action to the
word and put the question, “Is it yersel’, Jerry?”
“No,” was the reply in an unfamiliar voice. “Who are you, and what are
you doing in my house?”
Polly drew back. “The man’s stark, starin’ mad!” she exclaimed. “What’s
he doin’ wanderin’ about without a kaper?”
“Don’t let him in! Don’t let him in!” cried Agnes. “See that the
window’s shut, Polly, do.”
But Polly’s curiosity got the best of her, and she went to the window
to peer out. The man was fumbling at the door, trying to get it
unfastened. Failing in this he went toward the window. Polly quickly
slammed to the wooden shutter, at the same time crying out, “Get out of
here wid ye, and do it quick.”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” came the reply. “This is my house, and
naturally I should like to get into it.”
Polly opened the shutter a crack. “Who says it is your house?” she
asked.
“I’ve been living here for a month, and it’s mine by good right. The
people who used to live here have gone back east, as perhaps you know,
and as I came here before you did, I have the best right to the place.
First come, first served, you know. If you don’t let me in by the door,
I will have to climb in by one of the windows. Where’s your husband?
Perhaps he’ll listen to reason.”
“It’s mesel’ who’d be glad to know where he is,” returned Polly,
seriously, “and I’d be glad if you’d tell me.”
The man gave a little chuckle.
Agnes by this time had drawn near to Polly and was listening.
“I don’t believe he’s crazy, Polly,” she whispered; “he’s only
impudent. Shall I call father?”
“No, I’ll manage him,” returned Polly, coolly. “Let him try to get in
wanst, an’ I’ll make it hot for him. If he’s not a crazy man nor an
Injun, I’m not afraid to tackle him.”
The man was now occupied in wresting the leathern hinges of the
shutters from their fastenings, and seemed likely to succeed. It would
be easy enough then to cut through the piece of linen which, smeared
with bear’s oil, served in lieu of window-glass.
“You stop right there,” cried Polly, “or I’ll give you a taste of shot.
The best thing for you is to mount yer hoss, or if you haven’t one, to
go foot-back if you like to where you came from, for go you shall, or
you’ll be sorry.”
There was no answer but the bang of the shutter as it fell from its
hinges. Polly’s temper was up, and without further ado she snatched up
her rifle from its accustomed corner. There was a flash, a report, a
heavy fall, and Polly backed away from the window, while Agnes sank to
the floor covering her face with her hands.